The Shield Literary Society
by coldnightssummerdays
Summary: This is an Irondad AU based on one of my favourite movies, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. If you havent seen it, you should totally watch it. - Tony's life is a mess after the war. No home, no family. No life. Outside of his writing, that is. But when he gets the chance to write a column for the New York Times, his life changes in a way he didn't think was
1. Chapter 1

The evacuation notice came on 19 June 1940 in the late afternoon. Children of school age were to leave with their teachers the next day. Peter wasn't supposed to overhear the conversation between his aunt and neighbor that occurred that night after the notice was posted, and he especially wasn't supposed to run away afterwards.

But as usual with kids, they did a lot of things they weren't supposed to do.

That was why at 19:30 on the dot, Peter was hovering near the bottom of the wooden staircase. He couldn't see the people that were talking in the room next to him, but he knew who they were. Aunt May, the person he lived with after his parents died, and Carol Danvers, the next-door neighbor his aunt was close with. They were discussing Peter. Or more specifically, the fact that he would be leaving for the continent bright and early the next morning.

"I know it would be selfish not to send him," May whispered, trying to keep her voice down so Peter didn't hear her. Little did she know. "But I don't want to be away from him either. His parents died just last year, and Ben joined up just a few months ago. I have no idea how he would handle being shipped off to a new family on the mainland."

It was quiet for a few moments and Peter guessed that Carol was trying to comfort his aunt or formulate a response. Or maybe both at the same time. Peter wanted to give her a hug, too, after he heard her sniffle. But he remained on the stairs and strained to hear the rest of the conversation.

"It's going to be hard to let him go. But you must, for his sake. If Mary and Richard were still here, they would do the same. It's what's best for Peter." Carol replied eventually. Her voice was as soft as May's but the words she spoke were sharp.

"I know. Will you—will you come register him for evacuation with me? I don't want to go alone. We can just tell him we're going to the market; he'll be fine on his own."

"Of course, May. I'll go let him know, okay? Then we can go before the line gets too long,"

Peter jogged back up the stairs and to his bedroom, feet light against the floor. A few seconds later Carol found him sitting, somewhat unnaturally, at his desk with the newest book by Tony Stark open in his hands. Carol pretended not to notice that he was slightly out of breath, or that his book was upside down, and told him that she and May were going to the market to pick a few things up. In turn, Peter pretended to believe her lie.

He held his breath until he heard the front door close downstairs and the sound of May and Carol talking faded. Peter didn't want to go the continent, and he knew that May would send him whether he wanted to go or not. Grabbing the new rucksack, he had gotten the past Christmas out of the closet, he began to haphazardly throw clothes into it. Peter didn't pay attention to what he tossed in there, and ended up with four shirts, seven socks, and zero pairs of pants. He also threw a small throw blanket in the bag for good measure. Lastly, he grabbed his book (_The Avengers_, Tony Stark's newest novel) and gingerly placed it at the top of the bag.

_Well, _Peter thought slyly, _she can't send me away if she can't find me._

Peter almost forgot his shoes in his haste to leave the small house. At first he wasn't sure of where he was going, but his feet eventually carried him to a small alcove on the beach. Peter almost forgot that place existed; he hadn't been there since his parents died. It was where his family went for picnics and things. After that it was simply too painful.

Now those memories hit him full force. Peter could almost see the blue blanket his mother used for picnics laid out on the ground. Tears pricked his eyes as he set the overstuffed backpack down in the sand. He didn't normally let himself think about his parents, because it made him sad, which made his aunt sad, which made him even more sad. Peter hated making other people upset.

Peter didn't really know what to do now that he had left. There wasn't much to do in the alcove besides sit in the sand or swim. Peter wasn't allowed in the water without another adult, which left him only one thing to do; sit in the sand. He pulled out his book and read, forcing himself to read it slowly. He didn't want to read it too fast and not have anything else to do while he was out here. Despite being only eight, his reading level was that of a year seven student. Ben had encouraged him to read after his parents' death and taught him to read higher level books. He was grateful at first, but then some kid in his class named Eugene started making fun of him for being too smart. Peter didn't understand, though. How could someone be too smart?

He read until the sun fell below the horizon and it was too dark to read. Then he started to wonder about his aunt. Was May back home yet? Did she discover that he was gone? For a moment Peter felt guilty. He didn't even leave a note to tell her he was okay.

After the sun went down the temperature dropped. Peter pulled out the small blanket he had packed and wrapped it tightly around his shoulders. Maybe running away wasn't such a good idea. But Peter told himself it was only until after the ship left. Then he would go back.

|\\\/|

Carol found Peter curled up in a red blanket the next morning. Sand peppered his hair and Carol knew that it would take forever to get all of it out. She tossed his backpack onto her back before bending over and deftly lifting him into a bridal-style hold. Peter had an extremely small frame, even for an eight-year-old, that made it easy to carry him when he fell asleep somewhere other than his bed.

He didn't wake up while Carol carried him home. He simply burrowed further into her shoulder when the birds began to sing. The walk to the Parker's house didn't take long, and before he knew it, Peter had been tucked into bed.

May was downstairs at the dining table wearing a tired expression. She hadn't been able to sleep at all during the night, even when Carol forced her to lay down while she looked for her nephew. It took her a moment to notice the blonde standing in the doorway.

"He's still asleep, and probably will be for a couple of hours. There's still time to get him to the docks before the ship leaves," Carol said. May sighed.

"I know I need to send him; I really do. But he'll hate me if I do. He'll hate me for the rest of his life."

"Maybe. But be honest, what's better? Him hating you from England, safe from the Germans, or growing up under German occupation, always afraid of death and deportation?" May knew Carol only wanted what was best for Peter, hell, she did too. Still, she hated the words that came from her friend's mouth. Hated the Germans for being the reason she said them.

"We're all each other has left, Carol. I—I can't do that to him,"

May would hate herself for that decision until the day she died.


	2. Chapter 2

Tony struggled to fit his key into the mailbox lock. Nightmares plagued him ever since the Blitz, every time he closed his eyes to rest, he was standing in his sixth street flat. It didn't help that he also hadn't had his morning coffee yet. He almost dropped the hefty stack of envelopes when he did manage to open the mailbox, just barely managing to hold onto them as he yanked his key back out. How many times did he have to tell the landlord that the keyholes kept getting stuck before it would finally be fixed? Probably at least five more times, Tony guessed.

He ambled up three flights of creaky stairs to his flat at the end of the hall. His steps echoed through the stairwell, impossibly loud in the still morning air. When he finally made it inside his apartment, he tossed the mail onto his desk and sat down, moving the typewriter aside. It had been mocking him for months, the stack of blank paper beside it taunting him. His publisher ordered him to have the first three chapters done in a week and he didn't even have an idea.

Grabbing the letter opener from a tray of writing utensils on his desk, he got to work opening all the letters. Very few of them were from people he knew; most were from fans of his novels. Tony always tried to read his fan mail and send a reply if he had time. One letter caught his eye from the bottom of the pile. It wasn't written on white paper like the rest. It was written on what appeared to be butcher's paper. Tony reached for it, interest piqued, and began to read.

Dear Mr. Stark.

I read your book _The Avengers _when it first came out in 1940. I remember when my aunt gave it to me. I had been talking about the release for months and the day the shipment of them arrived at my favorite bookstore, she took me to get it. It meant a lot because we were always tight on money after my uncle left for the RAF. Sorry, that's not really the point. I just wanted to say thank you for writing that book, because it was probably the only thing that got me through the war. Your books helped me through some of the hardest things I had to live through the past five years, and even if you don't end up reading this letter, I thought it was only appropriate to tell you how much you helped me.

Sincerely,

Peter Parker

The handwriting wasn't the best, probably that of a student who had just entered secondary school. Tony wondered what this 'Peter Parker' was talking about. What had happened to him in the last five years? He checked the envelope for a return address to send a reply too. There was no address, but the postage stamp was marked for Guernsey. After a moment of thinking, Tony's sleep-deprived brain made the connection.

_Guernsey. Last five years. _The German occupation. Tony didn't even know Peter Parker, but suddenly his heart ached for him. _Handwriting like a secondary school student. _Peter Parker was young. Tony read the letter again, and again. At first, he was slightly confused; weren't children evacuated from the Channel Islands? He picked up a pen and wrote a reply.

Peter Parker,

I'm glad I was able to help, even though indirectly. Please excuse my bluntness, but were you in the Channel Islands during the occupation? It was my understanding that all children were evacuated with their schools to the English countryside. If so, what was it like?

-Tony Stark

Tony wished he had more to say, but it seemed his writers block wasn't only affecting his fiction. He rifled through his desk drawer to find an envelope to discover he had used his last one sending a reply to the London Writers Gala invitation sent to him by the editor of the London Times. Sighing, he wrote a reminder to pick up more envelopes today while he was out with Pepper.

Speaking of Pepper, it was eight and he had to meet with her at nine to see a newly built apartment in downtown London. Pepper was his publisher and close friend; their mothers had gone to Cambridge university together and the pair had practically grown up together. Pepper, along with Rhodey, were the only two people Tony would listen to.

An hour later, Tony was standing in Pepper's office impatiently waiting for her to be done with her phone call. He paced the room aimlessly and occasionally picked up knickknacks for closer inspection. Pepper had to whisper-yell at him several times for almost dropping something expensive.

"Geez, Tony. You have the attention span of a second year," Pepper laughed, putting the phone back on the receiver. Tony feigned insult as she quickly gathered her things.

"I'm wounded, Pep, I really am. We both know I'm more like a reception student." This statement earned Tony another smile.

Before long they were walking to a freshly built neighborhood in Stepney. It wasn't too far from the neighborhood Tony lived in before the Blitz or from the publishing office where he spend a lot of his time. That was the only reason Tony agreed to go see the new apartment even though he already knew he didn't want to live there. Pepper told him there was no way he could say no to this one. He was going to prove her wrong.

The apartment they were going to see was on the second floor and on the way up the realtor said, "You have first call on this place, so if you want it you have to act fast. Things go quickly nowadays." Tony nodded disinterestedly and earned a smack from Pepper. All behind the realtor's back, of course.

"So are you two . . . ?" The realtor asked, turning back to look at them in the hallway before unlocking the front door. The pair laughed. Everyone always thought they were together.

"No, no. She's my publis— " Tony started, only to be cut off by Pepper's quick interjection.

"—friend."

The realtor mumbled something unintelligible and opened the door to reveal a spotless flat. The walls and trim were white, as was the doors. Even the floor was light enough to be considered white. Tony thought of it as too clinical; it looked like a hospital. Who on earth wanted to live in a hospital? He missed Pepper's comment of, "Look, Tony, this is all new crystal. Isn't it beautiful?"

In fact, he wasn't in the flat anymore. He was standing in a pile of rubble that used to be his home, the bricks that made up the walls of his life crumbled. The dust was still settling between the cracks and onto his shoes. There were others around him, shouting names and shifting debris to find loved ones or animals. Most came up empty.

The sound of rustling paper caught his ear and he glanced around, trying to find its source. He -saw loose papers flitting by his feet. Eventually, Tony would come to realize that was his original manuscript of the first book he had ever written, titled _Iron Man. _Eventually, he would feel grief over the loss of his first success. Right now, though, he felt nothing. Unlike everyone else, he had no loved ones to call out to, pets to search for. His entire livelihood was buried in stone he couldn't even muster a single tear.

Tony thought there must be wrong with him to feel so much nothing. Maybe it had been going on for weeks, or months, or even years. Maybe it had been there all along, shoved further aside with each word he wrote or sentence he committed to paper. Maybe this feeling of nothing had been there all along and all it took to set it loose was his neighborhood being decimated.

As he stood there, he came to hate his life. He was a man who had everything and nothing. Every material thing he could want for but none of the emotional connection he longed for.

"Tony—Tony are you okay?" Pepper said, shaking Tony from his thoughts. Tony shook his head and walked towards the door.

"I can't live here," He said simply. Pepper protested, as he expected she would do.

"Why not? It's a proper home,"

"Yes, a proper home indeed. Just not mine."

Tony looked around the ballroom wistfully, wishing he could be at home in front of his typewriter. To be fair, even if he was sitting at his desk, he wouldn't be doing anything. Writer's block still had its sharp teeth sunk in his imagination. The most he had written all week was a crappy letter to a kid he didn't even have an address for. That he still hadn't mailed.

He swore he would pick up an envelope from the office on his way home and mail the letter first thing in the morning. That was the same thing he had promised himself the last two days but his lack of sleep made him forget.

When a waiter passed by, tray of champagne in hand, Tony forced himself to look away. He was currently eight years sober and he was not going to throw it away over a boring gala. Although when he saw Obadiah Stane heading his direction, he seriously began considering an escape to the open bar.

"Hey, Tony! How've you been?" Obadiah asked. Tony knew he didn't care one bit what his answer was, despite his cheery façade.

"Swell. My new book— _Civil War_—reached first on the bestseller list last week." Tony answered. He allowed himself one smug smile. Obadiah had been his mentor when he first began writing. Now Tony was doing better than him—over ten bestsellers to Stane's four— and was up for a piece writing for the _New York Times_.

"Great. Already start your next piece?"

"Yes. Its going to be great," Tony lied easily. Obadiah's expression became tight. _If I annoy him enough, he'll go away, _he thought.

"I heard _Ten Rings _made the top one hundred books list this year. How are things going with that?"

No reply. Though his smile was obviously forced. Tony bet that if he kept going, Stane would pull a muscle trying to keep up appearances.

"Personally, I wouldn't have chosen to write from the villain's point of view. Don't get me wrong, its an interesting perspective. But isn't the point of a superhero novel giving the readers someone to route for"?

"Have to shake things up sometimes, don't we? Nobody wants to read the same thing repeatedly,"

"You would be surprised," Tony said. As the words left, he spotted Pepper across the room, schmoozing a writer who was currently between publishers. Rumor was that her publisher had tried to take credit for her newest novel and gotten himself kicked to the curb.

"Excuse me, but I see someone I've been meaning to speak with." He said, quickly shouldering past his old mentor and made a beeline for Pepper. She was the only one here he could stand to converse with. Also, he saw Nick Fury, a publisher who had been trying to poach him for years.

Pepper brushed him aside when he stopped next to her, determined to add Michelle Jones to her repertoire of talented authors. Tony waited impatiently for her to finish her pitch. He turned his gaze to the ceiling of the ostentatious ballroom. It was painted with intricate designs of golden vines and flowers. The chandeliers looked freshly polished and counting the crystals kept Tony entertained until Pepper was finished with her conversation. Once Michelle was gone, she turned to face him.

"Sorry, but I was not going to let a chance to sign Michelle Jones. We could use more talent like her to our name." She said, grabbing a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. Tony pretended to take offense.

"Am I not enough talent for you?"

"Have you written any new chapters?"

". . . No?"

"Is that a question?"

". . . No."

"Then no. I need writers who write."

Tony sighed, looking towards the dance floor. "Dance with me?" He asked. He didn't want to think about his writer's block, or the letter, or anything else. Pepper nodded and placed her empty glass on a nearby table. They danced a few songs together before the musicians broke to allow an announcement that the award ceremony was getting ready to begin. The pair found seats near the front of the room because Tony was set to accept an award and he hated the feeling of peoples' eyes on him as he walked. It unnerved him.

Tony accepted an award for _London Times _Best Author, which was voted on by readers. The award made him excited. Validation was an important part of writing. It also reminded him of the letter. _Your books got me through some of the hardest things I had to live through the past five years. _

Tony tapped his foot impatiently. He had been standing in the post office line for what felt like forever gripping the short letter in his hand. Could you even send a letter that didn't have a full address? Well, he was going to find out.

When he finally got to the front of the line and the clerk asked what to write down the address he simply said, "Guernsey." The clerk looked at him with confusion.

"Guernsey? Do you have an actual address?" She asked. Tony shook his head. With a sigh, she wrote "Guernsey" in the address spot and added postage before throwing it in the outgoing mail bin.

"No promises it will get there. It will probably end up at the St. Peter Port office because that's where the ship drops stuff off. If you get lucky, someone there will know who Peter Parker is." The clerk said as Tony paid for postage. He crossed his fingers that the letter would find its intended recipient.

After his not so quick trip to the post office, Tony had to go to the office. Pepper said she had a big opportunity for him, something about the _New York Times. _Tony always wanted to write an article for the _New York Times _to gain more of a reputation in America, but he wasn't sure now was the time. With his current utter lack of imagination anything he wrote would not be _Times _worthy.

Surprisingly, when he got there Pepper wasn't in a meeting. She was always in one meeting or another, and when she wasn't doing that, she was reading new manuscripts. Tony wondered how she had a life outside of work, if she even did. He couldn't judge, however, because he didn't have one outside of writing.

He had started writing eight years ago, after his mom died in an accident. It gave him an outlet for his grief besides alcohol. Before he knew it, he had a bestseller and a fanbase. Tony had Pepper to thank for that. She forced him to get sober and start a career, picking up his novel when no other publisher would. Everyone else had said the world wasn't ready for a superhero novel because those were just for kids, but he proved them wrong. Very, very wrong.

"You will never believe who called me this morning," Pepper said, smiling as Tony walked over the chair in front of her desk.

"Who?" Tony played along.

"The _New York Times. _I've been pulling strings for months, and they want you to write an article."

"I can't write anything right now, Pep. I haven't been able to string two of the simplest sentences together for weeks."

"I know," Her voice was soft but strong. "But this is nonfiction. I think it would really help. Besides, I already said yes." Tony groaned. He knew Pepper was just trying to help, but he didn't want to ruin his first article for the _New York Times. _If he did that, it would be his first and his last.

"It's about reading. The editor said he wants to do a three-piece set about how reading can affect people. I think this will be good for you."

"Okay. Ill try to come up with something," Tony sighed. He was almost certain that he would come up with nothing. He didn't stay long after that—just long enough for a cup of coffee—before leaving. Maybe he should do the article on the letter he received a few days ago. The only issue is that he would need more information to go from; quotes from interviews, statistics.

There was nothing to do but wait for a reply. If he had any luck, he would get the article done before his book tour started in two weeks.

Four days later, not that Tony was counting, he received another letter. This time it had a return address listed as "2509 St. Smith Street, St. Peter Port, Guernsey". He didn't even take the time to go upstairs to open it, opting to read it in the lobby. As he pulled the letter out of the envelope, he was disappointed, seeing his own letter in it. But when he flipped the paper over, he saw the same messy scrawl from last time.

Dear Tony Stark,

I apologize for having to use the letter you sent, but paper is still scarce around here. To answer your question, yes. Most of the children were evacuated from the Channel Islands. I didn't leave. I was eight when the Luftwaffe landed at the airstrip.

_Dear god, _Tony thought, _this kid is only fourteen. _

The occupation was rough, to say the least. Things started out okay, but then they took all the animals on the island to feed their own soldiers and forced us to grow things like potatoes. They made us use Reichsmarks instead of pounds. They even switched what side of the road we had to drive on! That was only relevant for a few months though, because then the allotted fuel ration wasn't enough to drive anywhere with.

Sometimes things felt hopeless, like the Germans had snuffed out the light at the end of the tunnel and left us in eternal darkness. Those were the times I read your books the most. I had to keep them hidden under a loose floorboard in the basement. They didn't like it when we had books unless they were published by an approved author. Books make you think, and they certainly didn't want us to do that.

_This kid hid my books in his basement?_

Speaking of which, we even made a book club during the occupation. Lied and said we were trying to appropriate ourselves with German customs to keep a roast pig secret from the Germans. I was the one who picked the name. Never was good at keeping my mouth shut, so when the officer asked what we were doing I blurted, "We're the Shield Literary Society. You guys always say we need to learn about your customs, so that's what we're doing." I earned a sharp slap to the face for that one. After that we had to keep meeting so that we weren't suspicious.

Sincerely,

Peter Parker

Tony ran up the stairs and nearly slammed the door behind him when he got inside his apartment. He quickly wrote a reply.

Peter Parker,

Don't worry about reusing paper, I understand your predicament. While you have answered my questions, I'm afraid you have also given me more. Why did you have to keep a roast pig a secret from the Germans? Does your book club still meet? If so, when?

Take care,

Tony Stark

Tony made sure to put a few extra pieces of paper in the envelope, as well as postage, before sealing it. That way the kid wouldn't have to spend his own money to send letters and not worry about not having anything to write on. The next letter he received thanked him for his efforts as well as informing him that the club still met on Fridays and that Tony was welcome to come to the next meeting if he wanted to. Tony wasted no time in telling Pepper that he would be leaving for Guernsey Friday morning on the eleven o'clock ferry. Pepper tried to argue.

"Tony, you can't go. You have a book tour starting next week." She said, organizing papers on her desk.

"Please, Pep. I'll be back Monday," Tony pleaded. He had to go; for the article and for his curiosity.

"You're supposed to be in Edinburgh on Monday!"

"Not until five. I'll be back before then. Promise."

"Fine," Pepper relented. Tony shouted a quick thank you, already out the door. On Thursday he took a train to Portsmouth. On Friday, he left for Guernsey.


End file.
